Mummy Knew (31 page)

I insisted on speaking to a senior officer and he assured me they had no intention of letting the matter drop. They would continue their investigations in the hope of gathering enough evidence to re-submit the case to the CPS for further consideration.

I replaced the telephone receiver with shaking hands and braced myself to walk downstairs where I could hear my children playing, thankfully oblivious to the turmoil I was feeling inside. I couldn’t understand why this wasn’t being treated as an open and shut case, especially as Dad had made a partial admission. It should be obvious to any right-minded person that no child ever wants to enter into a sexual relationship with a parent of their own free will. Surely they could see that there must have been a substantial period of prior abuse and grooming? All I could do now was wait and see what would happen but by this stage my faith in the justice system was starting to crack.

In desperation I trawled the Internet in the hope of finding some help and support. I quickly came across The Phoenix Chief Advocates, a group who act on behalf of victims of child sexual abuse. I sent an email outlining my situation and asked if they could help. Shortly after, I received a telephone call from Shy Keenan, the founder of Phoenix and an award-winning children’s champion and campaigner. We spoke for nearly two hours, during which time I was enveloped in what felt like Shy’s protective Phoenix wings. I sobbed as I explained what had happened so far with the police investiga
tion. She was outraged at the way I had been treated by the police, and immediately phoned the detective I’d been dealing with to tell him so. I no longer felt so frightened and alone. Not now I had Shy and Phoenix on my side. In contrast to how I felt earlier that morning after speaking to the police, I replaced the phone having said goodbye to Shy, feeling strong and inspired to fight for what I knew was right.

Shy and I kept in regular contact as I waited to hear back from the detective. I knew that she was highly regarded by both the police and the media for her campaigning work, and I hoped the fact that she was behind me would make all the difference. But, ever professional, she was at pains to point out there was no magic wand. We were very much dependent on the officer in charge of the case to do his job properly, and gather all available evidence before the case stood a chance of proceeding.

This turned out to be painfully true when a few weeks later I received a letter from the police informing me they had taken the investigation as far as they could. With Mum and the rest of the family refusing to offer valuable corroborative evidence, they felt the case was no longer viable. I was distraught as I stared at the letter and was very upset to be told in such a cold manner. It was as if I was being told that what Dad had done to me didn’t matter. Sickening memories of his abuse and violence played in my head and I imagined his arrogant smile when the police told him they were dropping the case. It was then I started to feel a burning sense of injustice.

I re-read the letter and it became clear the police hadn’t bothered to investigate my case properly. Leads hadn’t been
followed up. No attempts had been made to trace important witnesses, and according to Shy, strict procedures laid down by the Metropolitan Police themselves were not adhered to. I had very good grounds to register a complaint and ask for the case to be reinvestigated by another team.

I wrote lengthy letters outlining my case to the head of the Child Abuse Investigation Unit and the Sector Director of the Crown Prosecution Service. I mentioned I had the full support of Shy Keenan at Phoenix, and the end result was that I received a very quick apology, and a high-ranking specialist officer was assigned to review my case formally. However, it took a further two years and many more letters before finally they were able to gather the evidence needed by the Crown Prosecution Service to press charges against Dad. Apparently it is quite usual for historical abuse cases to take this long due to the sheer length of time that has passed since the crimes were committed, and the fact that important witnesses may have moved to another area and be nigh on impossible to find. Shy remained a tower of strength throughout what was a very draining process, and without her bolstering support I’m sure I might have given up like so many other people do.

Finally, in the autumn of 2007 Dad was charged with four sample counts of indecent assault. The officer who had fought so hard over the past two years was over the moon when she told me.

‘It’s what we’ve been fighting for, Lisa,’ she smiled.

‘How long before it goes to court?’ I asked, elated at the news.

‘It’ll take about a year,’ she said. ‘Hopefully I can talk to your family again and see if any of them are willing to come forward to back you up about how violent he was.’

A few weeks later I called and asked if there was any news. I didn’t expect Mum to come forward because that would implicate her for charges of neglect, but surely Jenny, Diane, Cheryl and Davie wouldn’t let me down?

‘Sorry, Lisa,’ my officer said. ‘They don’t want to say anything that might get your Mum in trouble.’

I was distraught. What chance did I have if my own family couldn’t be bothered to come forward and confirm the simplest fact, like Dad’s violence. If only Cheryl would speak about what nearly happened to her, it would make such a difference.

‘Maybe I can talk to them,’ I suggested.

‘You’re not allowed to approach them. Otherwise you could be accused by the other side of coercing witnesses.’

So there it was. Although my testimony was rock solid, I had little in the way of support. Mum had refused to give evidence for either Dad or me, frightened that the prosecution would rip her to shreds. And not one member of my family was prepared to stand up and tell the court how violent or lecherous Dad was.

‘I can’t believe it,’ I complained to Neil later. ‘All I want is for them to tell the truth–nothing more, nothing less. I don’t know how they can live with themselves.’

‘Think about it, Lisa,’ he said. ‘If they told the truth, it could land your Mum in trouble. They’re petrified they’ll lose her again.’

I knew Neil was right. Diane, Cheryl, Davie and Jenny couldn’t face the truth. Kat was too young to remember much, but even if she did, I knew that her first loyalty would be to Mum, not some sister she hadn’t seen for nearly two decades. The only people I could rely on were Bridget from the tanning salon and Karen, my old school friend, who the police had managed to trace after much searching. I hoped that both of them would be able to remember the events I mentioned in my statement but I had no way of knowing because we weren’t allowed any contact before the trial. So much time had passed since it all happened, I could only hope that Karen would remember how I was kept off school, unable to take any exams, and never allowed out to play. Bridget had seen my cut and bruised legs the night she offered me a place to stay, and I was pretty sure she would testify given her own past history.

Their testimonies were small components of my whole case, but very important nevertheless. The crucial thing was going to be how well I came across in the witness box. I had to be very clear and certain in giving my evidence. Dad’s defence barrister specialised in defending all manner of sexual assault cases. He was nicknamed ‘the Rottweiler’ and, as I was to find out, he employed a particularly aggressive cross-examination technique.

The months leading up to the case passed slowly, and then time went into free fall. I tried to concentrate on normal family life, and used my old survival technique of placing things I found particularly stressful in a separate box in my mind.

Finally the day of the court case arrived. The defence had tried numerous times to get the whole case thrown out, using legal technicalities and points of law which left me reeling in confusion and fear. There were so many pre-trial hearings that I spent the final run-up to the trial on perpetual tenterhooks, waiting for my police officer to ring with news. In fact, the case was a day late in starting, because right up to the last minute the Rottweiler was arguing against it, but the judge was having none of it.

I was to be the first witness. Before I went in, my barrister introduced himself briefly and told me to speak the truth clearly. He was a middle-aged man with sparkling blue eyes and, according to my officer, was highly regarded. I was taken aback by the brevity of our meeting, though, because I expected we would talk through strategies.

‘You’ve been watching too much TV,’ my police officer laughed, trying to relieve the tension. ‘It’s only the defence barristers who get to talk to their clients like that.’

I imagined the Rottweiler ensconced with Dad, priming him on what to say and how to say it. It all seemed so unfair. Even my officer wasn’t allowed to stay to settle me in the witness suite, or contact me throughout the trial, or she might have compromised her own evidence. I was left alone.

I waited all day until finally I was called into court. I’ll never forget the fear that gripped me, making me want to throw up. I walked into a small modern courtroom, with Formica benches that looked as though they were straight off the set of
Crossroads
, the old 1970s soap opera that was
notorious for its wonky walls. Every pair of eyes in the courtroom turned towards me. Including Dad’s.

He sat slouched in the dock, a look of pure hatred on his face, which was puffy and lined, with huge black bags under his eyes. He was wearing an ill-fitting suit and his sparse head of hair looked as though he had dyed it with a tin of black boot polish only that morning. I could see the skin on his scalp was stained black. I felt ill to look at him, and dragged my eyes away.

The judge seemed like a kindly old man and made sure I had access to water and tissues, which would come in very handy. My barrister started to take me through my statement. There was no room for skirting round the issue. Everything was detailed in the most graphic manner so there could be no misunderstanding. I felt as though I was being raped all over again, and this was the prosecution. He kept motioning me to direct my answers to the jury but it was hard to look directly into the faces of twelve strangers and talk about the most lurid acts imaginable.

A couple of times I heard Dad snort with derision, his familiar gravelly tones roughened further by many more years of drinking and smoking. His barrister shot him a warning look, and the judge told me to ignore him.

I had promised myself I wouldn’t cry but after ten minutes, the dam burst. The strain of waiting years, months and days for this moment was too much. I let it out and sobbed so much that we had to pause while I pulled myself together. From that point on, I gave my evidence clearly and concisely. I looked at each jury member in turn, no longer frightened to tell them
the truth, no matter how unpleasant. I could see by subtle shakes of the head and the odd tear-filled eye that most of them were moved.

At five o’clock the judge sent us home. I was staying in a hotel nearby because the case had to be heard in London, where the crimes had been committed. I spent a long and troubled night thinking over my statement, and hoping I wouldn’t forget things, get dates wrong, or make any other innocent mistake the defence would leap on.

I finished giving my evidence at the end of day two and the judge had just dismissed me from the witness box when the Rottweiler jumped to his feet and barked, ‘Your honour, I would just like to take this opportunity to remind Mrs James that she is only part way through giving her evidence, and she is absolutely forbidden to discuss this case with anyone.’

I knew it was all part of his bravado, his way of telling me that I might have had an easy time with the prosecution, but tomorrow he would be the one calling the shots.

That night I was more scared than I had ever been. I had come so far, fought so hard against the justice system to get my day in court, and now if I said the wrong thing it could all be over.

As I walked into court the next morning, my hand shook as I took a glass of water from the usher. The Rottweiler noticed and I thought I detected a hint of a smirk.

When his questioning started, he managed to unsettle me straight away. His tone was unnecessarily harsh and aggressive, and he repeatedly asked me the same question in different ways. I suspected he was trying to throw me off
balance, but the judge became impatient and stepped in to remind him that he had already asked me that question several times and furthermore his line of questioning didn’t seem to be leading anywhere.

‘Now, can we move along, Mr Farmer?’

I realised quickly that much of the Rottweiler’s abrasive style was bravado. I was able to answer every question he asked me in a manner consistent with my statement. I also complained to the judge on at least two occasions when I felt he was purposefully trying to mislead the jury. He was forced to apologise before moving on.

I began to realise he had his work cut out in defending a man who had already admitted taking his stepdaughter’s virginity. Surely it would be hard for the jury to accept there had been no prior abuse or grooming? After all, it wasn’t natural for a girl to decide of her own free will to jump into bed with her dad as soon as she turned sixteen.

In total I spent four further days under cross-examination, which by all accounts is something of a record. Many times the defence barrister would say something and I’d point out he had made a mistake. The judge would then have to clear the court while the barristers engaged in legal argument. This was pushing the court time to the limit and there was a danger we would run out of time, which would result in the case being classed as a mistrial.

Once, after a lunch break, the usher showed me into the ante-room beside the court to wait until I was called. I nearly threw up. I could tell my dad had been in there before me from the stench of stale cigarettes, body odour and alcohol. I
couldn’t stay there. After taking a whiff herself, the usher understood completely and moved me outside.

‘Yes, he’s just been in there with his barrister,’ she confirmed.